


What I Want

by Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bruce's violence kink, Bruce's weirdo violent sex dreams, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 19:45:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12711696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog/pseuds/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog
Summary: Superman returns, and all Bruce wants is...





	What I Want

**Author's Note:**

> To celebrate Justice League's release, let's play: What if the dceu tackled Reign of the Supermen! Mostly cuz I would loooove for four Supermen to be running around with the two evil Clark's and sexy long-haired real!Clark. This fic is only barely about that premise, but still.

Beneath the warm summer night sky, the President announces to the world the return of The Superman, an ingratiating grin as he shakes hands with Superman, cameras flashing blindingly bright.

Bruce watches the strained smile on Superman’s face, the miniscule wince at the camera flashes. He wants to believe, wants to accept like the rest of the world, but Gotham had beat that out of him years ago. He can hear the laughter behind him, a familiar sound. There’s a small body brushing against his arm, but it’s not there, he tells himself it’s not there.

“You know better to buy into dreams, Bruce,” Jason tells him, cocky smile lighting his eyes behind the mask. “Good things don’t happen, not to people like us. You _know_ that. You’ve always known that.”

Bruce closes his eyes, breathes slow, counting along with his heartbeats. When he opens his eyes, Jason is gone. Bruce refocuses on the red caped figure on the dais, the man who should be dead. He needed to focus, needed to deal with what was in front of him. One ghost at a time.

Superman’s face is frozen on a pleasant smile, that caring look that promised everything would be alright, the same that appears in all the photos and blurry videos, like all of them that Bruce had poured over for months. Exactly the same. Every instinct screams in Bruce’s head as he watches that smile. He tells himself its paranoia, it’s a year’s long grudge that holds him rather than the last-minute truce of the final battle. It’s being the Batman for too long, being alone for too long. He wishes Diana had come, her calm unflappability soothing.

“ _The scan is complete,_ ” Alfred reports in his ear, rousing Bruce from his thoughts. “ _Hmm, now that’s worrisome. There seems to be some anomalies in his physiology._ ”

Bruce stiffens, fingers closing into a fist. “Like what?” he murmurs back, beginning to wind his way through the crowd, eyes glued to the Superman.

“ _There appears to be… cybernetic components_ ,” Alfred says slowly. Bruce pauses, mind racing. “ _The readings are similar to S.T.A.R. Labs notes on young Master Stone. There are components of at-_ ”

The rest of Alfred’s words are drowned out by the crowd’s thunderous applause as the Superman promises to resume his previous mission to help those in need. Bruce abandons his pretence of mindlessly wandering through the crowd, his heart beginning to race as adrenalin floods his system. He doesn’t have the suit, he doesn’t have Diana, he has no weapons aside from his fists and a single Batarang. He’s no match for the real Superman, and he suspects he wouldn’t fare better against this… whatever it is. Still, he can’t simply let the imposter escape.

“ _I would advise caution, Master Wayne_ ,” Alfred warns him softly as the cheering dies down. “ _We don’t want to assume he is the enemy. Not again_.”

Bruce grits his teeth. Alfred is right, as always, the kneejerk paranoia urging him to move before his can properly assess the situation. He wouldn’t make the mistake again, rushing into a battle without all the cards. Childish laughter echoes mockingly in his head.

The Superman shifts, the tensing muscle that warns of imminent flight. Bruce needs to act now.

The crowd is still clapping and cheering, photographers and reporters an impenetrable mass in front of the dais and the White House guests pressing close behind. The band is playing again, adding to the cacophony of voices and sound.

It’s a gamble, a dangerous gamble, but Bruce is out of options. “Clark,” he says, as loudly as he dares.

The Superman’s heard snaps around, dark gaze searching. Heart thundering in his throat, Bruce sidles into the crowd, pushing towards the back of the throng until he has a little space. The Superman’s gaze is still searching, confused, and Bruce swallows down the panic at letting that gaze fall on him. He wishes he’d brought the suit.

“Clark,” he says again, softer now that he knows he’s been heard. Those dark eyes immediately fix on him. The distance is too much for him to know, no way to discern if there is any recognition of Bruce in that marble face, but there’s a strange stillness that belies… something.

He takes a breath, another, and meets the Superman’s eyes. “We need to talk, Clark,” he says, and turns to melt back into the crowd.

 

 

 

“ _Are you sure about this, Master Wayne?_ ” Alfred asks, voice distinctly waspish. “ _You wouldn’t prefer a more public venue, like Times Square?_ ”

Bruce ignores him, scanning the room critically. The conference room was spacious enough that he’d have room to manoeuvre if there was a fight, the windows leading out onto the lawn if escape was necessary. He’s disabled all the surveillance cameras, jammed any recording devices, and all the windows and doors were locked up tight. Only one way to come and go. “No time like the present, right Alfred?”

“ _Such a cavalier attitude does not become you,_ ” Alfred replies, and Bruce relaxes slightly.

“So long as you have my back,” he says and scans the room again.

There’s a heavy sigh, but when Alfred speaks again, there’s an edge of reluctant affection, “ _Someone has to keep you in one piece, since you are so set on doing the very opposite_.”

There’s a whisper, a shadow that darkens the room, and Bruce looks up, muscles tensing.

Superman descends through the open skylight, like an angel on high, and the unbidden comparison makes Bruce flinch – Lex Luthor still manages to worm his way into his head even now. The conference room is dark, the lights of the party outside the only thing illuminating the room. The shadows play over that perfect face, making the sharp planes look harsher, more menacing. For a second, there’s a glow of red that has Bruce tensing, fear licking up his spine.

It’s too much like the dream, the nightmare future of sand and blood that makes Bruce step back, away, and Superman’s body turns, keeping him directly in his line of sight.

“Well?”

Bruce’s jaw muscle jumps – the voice is the same, that soft, honey-rich sound.

“Who are you?” he asks brusquely, colder than he means to.

Superman’s head tilts to the side. “Why would you ask that? You already know. You called my name.”

“So you’re Clark, then?” Bruce says, a sneer in his voice. “And we’re supposed to believe you, just like that? You may be able to pull this whole miraculous recovery thing over the rest of the world, but you can’t fool me. Even aliens like you have limitations, and springing back to life is one of them.”

“Is that right?” Superman says silkily, and every hair on Bruce’s neck stands on end. “You know this for a fact?” He takes a step forward.

Bruce holds his ground, pulling up his lazy playboy mask around himself. “I’ve done my homework. Even Zod didn’t come back without a few… complications.”

The amused tone hasn’t left Superman’s voice. “Yes, I am well aware of that. All too well.” He reaches up, touches the centre of his chest, and Bruce’s breath leaves him in a rush. The exact nature of Superman’s death at the hands of Doomsday had never been made public, no body to examine and no footage to see. Even if an imposter figured out Superman’s identity, even if they stole his face, his voice, they couldn’t know how he’d died.

“You can’t be him, how can you be him? It’s not possible,” Bruce says, shaking his head, and Superman smiles in response.

“ _Master Wayne, the readings_ ,” Alfred reminds him, and the smile disappears in a blink of an eye.

Bruce pulls himself together. No conclusions without facts. “If you’re him,” Bruce says slowly, “Why are we picking up cybernetic components in your physiology?”

There’s a crack, and then he’s there, a foot from Bruce’s face. Bruce reacts without thinking, hand swinging up to jab into the soft hollow of his throat, only to crack off iron hard skin. Pain lances up his fingers as Bruce jerks back with a snarl, but Superman makes no further move.

This close, it’s impossible to deny that it’s Clark’s face staring back at him, quirking his lips in a lopsided smile like the photos Mrs Kent had showed him on his second visit to the farm. It’s a smile he’d never expected being directed at him, a smile he didn’t deserve, and it stills him enough that he is too late to react when Superman reaches up and plucks the transmitter from his collar, crushing it in his palm with a tiny squeal of metal.

Bruce stares as the transmitter drops to the floor, a lump of metal and wires. He looks back up into grey eyes, too light and playful than the stormy grey glare from his memories.

“You not him,” Bruce says coldly.

Superman’s smile broadens. “And you know for sure, since we were so close before. You knew me _so_ well.” His grin sharpens at Bruce’s involuntary flinch.

“We might not have been close, but you’re dreaming if you think you can fool me, kid.”

Superman’s head tilts, and those eyes flare red again. “Feeling insecure, are we? It’s a lot easy to talk tough when you’ve got that little spear handy.” He leans in close, breath fanning across Bruce’s face. “Did you bring any lovely little Kryptonite toys today, or did you want to play _nice_?”

“You’re not him!” Bruce snarls, trying to shove him away, but Superman merely laughs, hands closing like steel around his biceps.

“You should have brought it, Bruce,” Superman says sadly, drawing him in close. “You shouldn’t have hesitated, just like last time. Plunge that spear into my heart, watch me bleed out, cut me until I stop.” Superman skims his mouth along Bruce’s jaw, breath hot and wet against his skin. “You wanted to, last time,” he whispers into his ear, and something hot and dark ignites in Bruce’s chest. “You want to still, I know you do. I can see all that lovely desire every time you look at me Bruce. If you didn’t want it, you would have brought the weapon. Batman doesn’t let sentiment rule his heart, everyone knows that. A Dark Knight of Justice has no room for second guessing. You shouldn’t show me any mercy.”

“Will you?” Bruce asks snidely, twisting in his grip.

“Kill you?” Superman pauses, seemingly relishing the question. He sighs, burying his face into Bruce’s hair. “Perhaps. Luthor had the right of it, the plan to tarnish my name would work wonders if I killed. Not a monster, not an alien, but a vigilante Bat’s blood on my hands and I would no longer be good, I would no longer be a benevolent God.”

“You’re no God,” Bruce snarls, broken fingers scrabbling against Superman’s chest.

“It is a nice thought though,” Superman continues, ignoring him as he mouthed down his neck. “I’m sure you would give me a wonderful death. I could snap your neck, it wouldn’t even be difficult, just a little energy and,” teeth closed over Bruce’s jugular, biting down hard. Bruce hisses, kicking wildly.

Superman draws back, thumbing over the mark he left. “But that would be boring. Perhaps something else? A little more intimate? Maybe, like this?” He rests his hand, flat over Bruce’s chest, right above his thundering heart.

Bruce stills, the memory of the dream suddenly so strong it’s almost blinding, drowning everything else out. It had been so real, the pain, the fear, the inevitable end, helpless to save anyone, as Superman crumpled his ribcage like tissue paper.

“Yes,” Superman says slowly, trailing a hand down Bruce’s waistcoat, cloth tearing beneath his fingertips. “That would be much more… symbolic? A little something to remember you by.” His fingers curl, cutting through fabric and skin, pressing down gently, so gently, as Bruce gives in at last and screams.

“This is what you want,” Jason tells him, peering over Superman’s shoulder as fingers bury into Bruce’s warm flesh. With a twitch of his fingers, he could easily shatter Bruce’s ribs, and Bruce presses himself closer, feels the hot line of Superman’s arousal against his hip. He ignores Jason’s sniggers, loses himself in the hard press of Superman’s mouth. He tears helplessly at Superman’s shoulders, his skin, sinks his fingers into lush black hair, and tells himself that he doesn’t want this. After all these years, he is so very good at believing his own lies.

“You want to give me this broken thing?” Superman whispers lowly, fingers splayed over Bruce’s heart. “Or do you want me to break it? Is that what you think you deserve? After everything?”

“After you couldn’t even save us,” Jason adds, crouching on the conference table, guileless blue eyes watching them curiously.

Superman grinds his hips against Bruce, the hot press of his cock blinding everything out, and Bruce mindlessly draws him back close, cups Superman’s face, Clark’s face, in his hands and stares into blue-grey eyes. “I’ve stopped deserving good things a long time ago,” Bruce admits, a secret just for them.

His ghosts smile back at him. “But you still want me to what?” Clark says, pulling at his pants, dragging them down, and Bruce sighs, folding against the touch. “To fuck you?” Fingers wet with blood trace Bruce’s entrance, and Clark as grins up at him Bruce touches the dimple in his cheek dazedly whilst fingers press in to him without remorse. “To love you?” Clark lines up, pushes in and Bruce screams, loses himself in the exquisite pain. Clark’s hips rock slow, too slow, and Bruce claws desperately at his hips, his back.

Clark grabs his wrists, twins them around his neck with a smile, before his hips snap up, his cock a slow drag that Bruce feels in his whole body.

“Or maybe,” Clark says, eyes on Bruce’s chest. “You want me to kill you.” Clark drags his finger over the glistening head of Bruce’s cock, smearing precum. He holds up his fingers, tongue flickering out to taste. “Is that what you want from me, Bruce?”

He straightens his hand and jabs down, through muscle, through sinew and bone, splintering Bruce’s ribcage like an eggshell. “But the Bat of Gotham,” he says, shuddering as Bruce screams, body spasming as he severs veins and cartilage. “Doesn’t need a heart. It’s only going to cause you more pain,” Clark pulls out Bruce’s beating heart with a tender smile.

The pain is familiar, feels so good Bruce feels he’ll fall apart with the ache of it. More, he thinks, hooking his ankles behind Clark’s back, pulling him back, dragging him deep inside. He rocks against Clark desperately, fingers wrapping around his erection, mindlessly chasing the burning desire in his own sweet agony. Clark groans helplessly, his hips snapping into him with punishing force.

Jason inspects the heart, pressing his lips against it in a soft kiss. “Is that what you want, Bruce?”

He drops it with a wet splat.

Bruce winds his fingers into Clark’s dark curls, biting at his mouth until it opens against him, let’s his tongue slide against Clark’s teeth. Jason flicks the exposed bone of Bruce’s ribs, dipping his fingers into the wet hole of his chest.

“Don’t,” Bruce mumbles, distracted by the softness of Clark’s mouth, the way his tongue flickers out to trace Bruce’s lips.

Jason grins, dragging his fingers over his face, painting his skin in glistening red. “Death abandoned you long ago, Bruce. You know what you want will never be yours. A sinner like you doesn’t get what they want.” His white teeth gleam bright amidst his bloody mask.

“What do you want, Bruce?” Clark says, too soft, too kind, and Bruce can’t help his broken sob at the sight of that gentle smile. “Tell me, and I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you everything.”

Bruce drags him back down, kisses those soft red lips. “Save me,” he whispers. “Save me, save me, _save me_.”

Clark’s smile is sad. “Then promise you’ll save me too.”

The words echo through him, around him, and Bruce screams, climax shuddering through him.

Clark pulls away, scooping up the forgotten heart. Bruce struggles to his feet, wanting to pull him back, but Clark twists, hovering above him. “Save me, Bruce.”

 

 

 

In the gloom of the Batcave, Bruce straightens with a wince, chest and hips throbbing with pain. He glares blearily at his phone, rubbing at the tight strapping over his chest as it buzzes again, vibrations reverberating off the cave walls.

“You need to come up to the Fortress immediately,” Diana says without preamble as soon as he picks up. “I think I may have found something.”

As Bruce makes his way to the suit, he glances at the two glass cabinets standing sentinel at either side of the staircase, passing over the graffitied armour, before sliding back the glass holding the spear. A snap, and the spearhead breaks off, tumbling into his palm. Bruce weighs the kryptonite in his hand, the mineral oddly heavy. How beautiful it is, for such a horrid weapon, such a precious thing.

“What I want,” Bruce says hollowly.

He presses the blade of the spear against his chest, until fresh blood soaks the bandages. His heart beats slow and steady. He wants to grind the blade into his flesh, let it pierce his heart.

The echoes of the dream linger in his ears. _Save me, Bruce_.

He pockets the kryptonite.

**Author's Note:**

> The story kinda... got away from me there.
> 
> I'm fascinated by Bruce's weirdo violent sex dream in BVS, but I'm also interested in how the potential future/reality kinda fed into it too. What is real, what's a dream, we just don't know /insert Inception noise here/
> 
> Sure would be nice if JL gave me more of sadomasochistic dream-psychic Bruce.


End file.
